


December 10 - 15 hot(t!) Haradrim

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi-Age, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2005-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today's writing "mathom" is:</p><p>15 hot(t!) Haradrim</p><p>***</p><p>Write whatever you feel like – a drabble, a poem or a short story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Salt-Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul." ~Pablo Neruda~

 

The Salt-Rose

Legolas tugged at the high collar of his robes of state and sighed. Another banquet. This time they were hosting the Haradrim. The peace, only newly acquired, was tentative at best and, as a gesture of good faith, the Eastern King insisted on providing the entertainment for the evening. Only Elessar, present for the planning, gave any sign of anticipation. Exchanging a look with Gimli, Legolas noticed that the dwarf's eyes were already half-lidded in drowsiness from the sumptuous feast. He hoped that no one else would be so bored.

The sound of drums and rhythmic ringing of bells caused him to straighten in his chair.

_May it be quick, if it is unpleasant._

Fifteen Haradrim women entered the room, nay, they glided across it. Legolas struggled to keep his expression mild. He had never seen such beauty! While he was used to Elven women being fair and lithe, these women were dark and exotic. Their dance was nothing like the elves. They were graceful, yes, but they were also sensuous. Every move seemed to be designed to invite the onlookers in. The dancers wore veils so that he could see nothing of their faces except their eyes, but... such eyes! Amber and gold and a fathomless deep brown, all met his gaze boldly as he watched them.

They danced around the hall, their hips rhythmically twisting, bodies undulating to the beat of the drums. The small bells on their fingers sang out in time, as they scattered through the crowd. A dancer approached, twirling in front of him, the orange-red-brown colors of her skirt and veil swirled around her, reminding him of a flame. Their eyes met and held. The drums moved to a crescendo and then abruptly stopped, as did she. Legolas released the breath he had been unaware he was holding. The audience rose to their feet filling the hall with thunderous applause, as the dancers bowed.

Legolas watched them exit. He met Gimli's bemused glance and smiled uncomfortably.

He vowed to find out more about the Haradrim. Much more.  



	2. Stepping Out - by Gwynnyd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing "mathom" is:

“This _is_ Gondor?”

“Yes.” Denethor had waged a campaign not two summers ago to assure that. While Harad also claimed this fertile, resource-rich strip of land in South Gondor, the assertion held, for now.

He didn’t know where to focus his eyes. The boy … man facing him wore breeches and a loose, open robe that showed, in Denethor’s opinion, far too much smooth, hairless chest. He had enjoyed the performance last night, but watching the sinuous play of oiled skin by torchlight while the dancers leapt and spun was a far cry from seeing an expanse of bare flesh by sunlight in the commander’s room at the fort. Looking at the boyish face was no easier; there were definite signs of aging around the eyes.

“And Gondor does not allow slavery.” The young, light voice did not at all accord with the shrewdness Denethor heard there.

Denethor gave a curt nod of acknowledgment.

“So this is clearly illegal.” The man touched the silver ring, inscribed with the brothel owner’s name, welded around his neck. “The fifteen of us wish only to abide by Gondor’s laws, and pay a portion of our earnings to Gondor in taxes, rather than all of them to an owner. We provide services no less than any other citizen, and desire only that our …legal… status as free men and women be acknowledged.”

Knowing now why the garrison commander had greeted his arrival with undisguised relief, Denethor sourly considered his options. There were not that many outright slaves in the region, but they tended to belong to the richest and least tractable men, who already resented Gondor’s presence in the area. Decreeing that all slaves were now free would probably spark another war. Yet, in principle, Denethor deplored slavery. Could he free just this group?

Studying the intelligent face opposite him, Denethor had an idea. “Would you object to moving around or a,” he hesitated to give emphasis to the next words, “change in profession.”

“We are dancers and prostitutes. Our profession can be practiced _anywhere_.” The other smiled a feral grin. “I have no reason to be grateful to Harad, and I think you will find me _very_ loyal to a new …master.”

They understood each other. A talented group of attractive dancers could glean much useful information. It would cost a great deal, but, if he proved trustworthy, it would be worth it.


	3. Relief & Dance - RiverOtter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing "mathom" is:

Relief  
  
A sandstorm swirling  
Fifteen Haradrim searching  
Bright green oasis  
  
Dance  
  
Bright cymbals tinkling  
Fifteen Haradrim dancers  
The beat of the drum


	4. Untitled - by Wolfwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing "mathom" is:

_This drabble is based on an actual event in US history, the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire.  It was a terrible fire, and so this drabble is a bit gruesome and very depressing.  I apologize, but it would not let me go._  
  
  
A spark amid the fabric, they explained later.  The seamstresses hadn't noticed.  The fire roared up before they realized their danger.  
  
Watching, we only saw the flames licking upward.  We saw them scramble for the doors, realized they were locked.  They fought their way to the window, trampling one another to reach the cooler air.  The heat of the fire painted them red.  
  
They climbed onto the sill.  We shouted to them, screamed that it was too far a fall; the palace stood on a cliff!  They did not heed us.  Spreading their arms, one after another, fifteen leapt.


	5. Evil Remains - by Agape4Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing "mathom" is:

## Evil Remains

The sandstorm choked even the mûmak, a gift from Prince Angamaite to Gondor upon the sealing of the peace agreement. Nine days of blowing sand and blistering heat had passed since they set out to find the rebel camp. Their Captain called a halt.  
  
"Is it always like this?" his men asked.  
  
"According to Elessar King, this is what the land gives. The sting of the desert mimics the sting of the snows of the White Mountains, does it not?"  
  
Elessar walked forward. "'Tis those _fifteen hot Haradrim_ I see ahead who will feel our sting, King Éomer."


	6. Untitled - by Isabeau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's writing "mathom" is:

I just have to stop....  Isabeau

Of all the cursed luck! Captain Faris swore to himself despairingly.  He had put out of port almost immediately in hopes of  fleeing the fever, but some  of his men had gone ashore and now fifteen of them  burned below decks in the  throes of contagion.  The rest of them were demoralized at the prospect of a  foe they could not properly battle, and now  this Gondorrim ship had shown up  at just the wrong time to test their  mettle.   
  
He looked at the name blazoned on the ship's prow, Olwen, and his heart sank  further still.  Fire take him, but the fates must have marked him for doom  from his day of birth.  T'was not just any ship or captain, but the Black Swan  of Dol Amroth himself!   
  
Then he noticed that the Gondorrim were flying the yellow flag that   signified contagion as well.  The ships drew near to each other, orders were shouted,  and their remaining crews scurried to battle stations.  But before battle  could be joined a beautiful voice speaking in fluent Haradric  floated across  the intervening water.   
  
"I would parley with you ashore, Captain, if you would be so kind."   And a  white kerchief was waved in the breeze.   
  
"I will meet with you there, Captain," Faris responded after a moment's   astonished silence, trotting his own excellent Westron out for the occasion.   Acquiring a white flag of his own, he had a boat lowered and swiftly joined his  Northern counterpart on the beach.   
  
The Heir to Dol Amroth was every bit as handsome and imposing as Faris   expected, but he was also younger than expected and his expression was as tired   and strained as Faris' own.  One of Faris' own countrymen stood in Swan Knight  livery at his side, and there was a guard of six others at his  back.  Faris' own escort were nowhere near so impressive.   
  
"I see you brought your Wolf with you, my lord," Faris told Prince Imrahil,  indicating the Haradrim and there was a flash of white teeth in response from   the Heir's shield man.   
  
"Always," the Black Swan said simply.  Then he added, "And I see that you did not escape the fever either.  How bad?"   
  
"Bad enough," said Faris, unwilling to disclose the extent of his weakness.   "And you?"   
  
"The same."  There was a long moment's silence while the two parties  eyed one another warily.  Then the prince spoke again.  "I think…I think that we both have a bigger battle to fight this day, Captain…"   
  
"Faris," Faris supplied.   
  
"Captain Faris.  The fever is no respecter of men or nations.   What would you say to a truce?"   
  
A gleam of hope entered Faris' heart.  "What terms would you give, my lord?"   
  
"That for the duration of our difficulties, we are at peace.  That we bring both of our ships into this harbor and do what we can to aid our sick men and help each other.  That when the fever has run its course, we depart in peace and sail a day out before we resume hostilities.  And that if there are not enough men left to crew both vessels when the fever has run its course,  then whoever has the most men left will take the others upon his vessel and sail or his home port while guaranteeing the release of the other crew to their   ambassadors.  Are these terms acceptable to you?"   
  
"The terms are more than reasonable, my lord prince," Faris said, trying   not to sound surprised.  "Will you give me a moment to confer with my men?"   
  
"Of course."  The Prince turned towards his men and Faris took his own a few paces away.  There was some half-hearted objection, but not much-Olwen was  not a large ship, but she was larger than Faris' own and there  were those  half-dozen Swan Knights in the crew…  Swan Knights figured prominently in  Haradrim mothers' threats against unruly offspring, and  consequently held an  exalted place in the list of Haradrim foes.   
  
"I agree to your terms, Prince Imrahil, and will inform my crew of them," Faris said to the young captain upon his return.  "I, Faris son of Farikheen  of Umbar swear that I will hold to the terms of this truce."  He extended his hand.   
  
"And I, Imrahil son of Adrahil of Dol Amroth swear that I will hold to the terms of this truce."  The prince's forearm in its swanship-engraved greave   was offered in its turn and the two men clasped arms.   
  
"We had both better be getting back to our ships," Imrahil said when they had released each other.  "Why don't you take the left side of the beach and search that side of the island for water and I'll do the same on the  right?   Whoever finds some can tell the other."   
  
"That sounds good, my lord," Faris said and turned to make his way back to his boat, feeling much more hopeful than he had just an hour previously.   He thought the Prince looked relieved as well.  The Gondorrim are not so different from us when all is said and done, he thought bemusedly.   No man of reason will war if an alternative is available.    As if to emphasize his enemies'  humanity, a stray breeze brought to his ears a  querulous complaint from the  Prince.   
  
"Andra, how come YOU always get to be the animal with TEETH?"   
  



End file.
